Becoming His Expensive Plaything (1/11)

Jacob’s knee bounced restlessly as he scrolled through job listings on his phone, frustration twisting in his gut. His landlord was breathing down his neck, credit card bills stacked on the kitchen counter, and his paycheck wasn’t even enough to cover rent—let alone the mountain of debt suffocating him. He needed cash fast, or he was screwed.

Then he saw the listing. One-time opportunity, excellent pay, simple task. No details, just an address. It sounded sketchy—too vague, too convenient, the kind of thing that usually led to trouble. His gut told him to ignore it. His empty bank account told him otherwise.

An hour later, he was standing outside a sleek, upscale house, pressing the doorbell with a sweaty finger. The man who answered—Victor—looked to be in his late forties, tall, well-dressed, and composed. His gaze swept over Jacob with an appraising sharpness, like he was sizing him up for something. Then, just for a moment, a faint, almost devious smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You must be here for the job,” Victor said, his tone polite but direct. “Are you comfortable changing into something else for this?”

Jacob frowned slightly. It was an odd request, but for the amount of money on the table, he wasn’t about to start asking questions. He forced a nod, keeping his expression neutral as Victor stepped aside to let him in.

Once inside, Victor picked up a razor from a nearby table and handed it to Jacob. “Before you get changed, I’ll need you to shave your body. Just enough to smooth things out.”

Jacob blinked. What? His first instinct was to refuse, but his bank account’s pitiful balance kept his mouth shut. He swallowed hard, nodded stiffly, and disappeared into the pristine guest bathroom.

The process was awkward, unfamiliar. He wasn’t some hairy beast, but taking a razor to his arms, legs, and even his chest felt… strange. He ran a hand over his now-smooth skin, shuddering at the alien sensation before stepping out, self-conscious.

Victor barely acknowledged his discomfort, instead gesturing to an elaborate outfit laid out on the bed. The moment Jacob saw it, his stomach dropped. A lacy black crop top, a flowing champagne-colored skirt, and a pair of sky-high nude heels.

His mouth went dry.

No. No way. He opened his mouth to protest, to ask what the hell this was about—but then he thought about the money. Enough to keep a roof over his head, to give him some breathing room, to make life a little less desperate. He couldn’t afford to walk away.

His hands trembled as he stepped into the skirt, feeling the luxurious fabric glide up his legs. The crop top was snug, exposing his newly smooth stomach in a way that made him flush. Then came the heels. Victor knelt down without a word, sliding the first pump onto Jacob’s foot with practiced ease before fitting the other just as effortlessly. The moment Jacob stood, his balance wavered dangerously.

The humiliation burned through him, but he kept his face neutral. Money. Just think about the money.

Victor wasn’t done. He guided Jacob to a chair, tilting his chin up as he started on his makeup. Jacob tried to avoid looking at the array of products, but it was impossible to ignore the feeling of foundation being smoothed onto his skin, of eyeliner dragging across his lids, of lipstick carefully pressed to his lips.

Then came the hair. Victor’s fingers worked with practiced ease, curling and styling until Jacob’s usual mess of hair was transformed into glossy, cascading waves.

When Victor finally stepped back, a small smile tugging at his lips, he gestured toward a full-length mirror. Jacob forced himself to stand, wobbling slightly, and turned.

He nearly stopped breathing.

A woman stared back at him. Not a guy in a dress. Not some awkward, half-assed attempt at femininity. A woman. The delicate makeup, the soft waves in his hair, the elegant flare of the skirt, the tall heels that made his legs look impossibly long—it was all perfect.

His hands trembled as he touched his face. Holy shit.

Victor barely seemed to notice Jacob’s stunned expression as he walked over to the couch and sat down, casually grabbing the remote. “You can sit if you’d like,” he said, turning on the TV as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Jacob hesitated before perching stiffly on the edge of the couch, hands pressed awkwardly against his lap. The skirt pooled around him, the soft fabric brushing against his legs in a way that made his face burn. Every shift of his body reminded him of the unfamiliar outfit—the tightness of the top, the precarious height of the heels, the weight of the curls framing his face. He felt ridiculous, hyperaware of every little movement.

Victor barely glanced his way, absorbed in whatever was on the screen. Jacob, on the other hand, sat there, tense and humiliated, unsure of what to do with himself. The hours dragged by, every shift of his body a reminder of the outfit he was still wearing, the skirt brushing against his legs, the heels keeping him uncomfortably poised.

Eventually, Victor helped him change back into his own clothes, wiping away the makeup before handing him an envelope of cash along with a small card.

“My personal number,” Victor said with a smile. “Call if you’re interested in making more money.”